


Bonded

by howlingmoonrise (TheDarkStoryteller)



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:48:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkStoryteller/pseuds/howlingmoonrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Wes is a meddlesome tattoo artist, people have a thing for soulmates, and Maka is frustrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonded

**Author's Note:**

> For wingsof-flame's birthday - I hope you enjoy!  
> Many thanks to rebornfromash for helping me out on this :D You rock!

Wes Evans, tattoo artist extraordinaire, was giggling to himself quietly as his newest client eyed him suspiciously.

“Are you drawing a dick on my back or something? Because if you are,” she threatened, the ash-blonde pigtails that should have made her look cute making her seem all kinds of deranged instead. “You won’t get out of here with all your body parts intact.”

“Ah, no, sorry,” he apologized, though inwardly he could picture himself snickering madly while rubbing his mental hands together. “I was just thinking of something that happened earlier.”

Well, it wasn’t a _total_ lie. It had, in fact, happened earlier, even if only less than five minutes before.

Bond tattoos were a thing that had been gaining fame lately, especially amongst the younger generations of hopeless romantics. The brainwaves that served as official identification for citizens everywhere on the planet, much like fingerprints had been before they had become easily falsified, also had other uses, such as finding a small fragment of the person’s soulmate - be the soulmates platonic or romantic, singular or multiple - in the person’s own brainwaves via a program called Resonance. It could be anything from a memory to a piece of art or a word, and artists, writers and scientists alike had jumped at all the new opportunities this new development allowed them.

As such, imagine Wes Evans’ surprise when the designated Bond Fragment digitalizing on his client’s skin was the first three lines of his little brother’s most chaotic composition. Or rather, his delight when he realized that the cute girl in skirt and pigtails had a sharp tongue and short temper, the kind that would make Soul both cower from it but also make him hiss back insults like a scared cat. Not that cats hiss insults, or can speak at all, but-- well, that comparison was getting away from him a bit.

The little ball of fury (the pigtailed girl henceforth dubbed that way from how she had unleashed first verbal fury, and then pragmatic fists upon the red-haired sleaze flirting with a group of girls by the parlour’s doorway) stared at him oddly. “You’re still laughing.”

“Sorry,” he apologized again, and he meant it. “I promise it’s not a dick.”

“It better not be,” she grumbled, but her body relaxed again.

Wes cast her file a quick glance. “So,” he says. “Maka, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

“You don’t look like the kind of girl who’d do a Bond tattoo.”

Maka frowned. “That’s a stupid thing to say. You shouldn’t evaluate someone by their looks, especially not by using the ‘special snowflake’ approach - it’s a really shitty thing to do.”

“No, no, I agree,” he smiled, blunt teeth glistening in the artificial light. “I said that because of all the stuff you were shouting at that red-haired dude.”

Her cheeks flushed red, the colour travelling down to her neck. “Ah-- That was actually my Papa.”

Well, shit.

The needle worked gracefully over her skin, and he was glad that she was one of those people who didn’t seem to feel much pain. Some of his clients were a mess, squirming and groaning in pain and almost ruining the tattoo; this one was a relief after the busy week they had been having. Wes wondered if his little brother would like her, all short skirts and temper as she went. He was pretty sure Soul would get hooked as soon as she opened her mouth to spew some kind of insult involving ‘chauvinistic pigs’ and threatening to split someone’s skull with a hardcover, like he’d seen her do not even half an hour before; his brother had always been weird like that.

 

* * *

 

Maka Albarn was, by nature, a very curious person. She didn’t like not knowing things, especially if other people had mastered the subject, and the fact that none of the musical experts she asked had seemed to know where the lines tattooed on her back were from (not to mention all the failed online research) had her pretty much stumped.

“So you’re taking piano now?” Liz asked in disbelief, coffee mug in hand. “But you’re completely tone-deaf.”

“I knooow,” Maka groaned pitifully, already regretting her decision to follow the tattoo artist’s advice. “I was about to walk out and give up on the idea but suddenly this really hot guy asked me if I was there for his piano lessons--”

“--And you couldn’t say no,” Liz finished helpfully.

Maka groaned again.

“Completely understandable,” soothed Tsubaki, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Was he nice?”

“Super snarky, actually,” Maka responded, giving up on her urge to bang her head against the wall. “But not too rude or anything - especially after I Maka-chopped him. He looked pretty strange, but a strange kind of hot, you know? Either way, as soon as I know enough to play that infernal thing, I’m out.”

“Sure you are,” Liz teased as red started to bloom in her friend’s cheeks. “Just tell me when I can say ‘I told you so’.”

 

* * *

 

It was humiliating.

Whatever (very lacking) talent she may have had for the instrument, it was completely lost as she zoned out and fantasized about the pointy teeth of her instructor scraping against the skin of her neck. His looks were so peculiar, yet she had never been so attracted to someone in her entire existence. His body heat radiated in the small space separating the two of them, his knees brushing with hers every so often as he leaned over to better explain something to her; it was driving her nuts.

“Are you even paying attention?” he asked irritatedly, white locks falling over his forehead even as his cheeks coloured the tiniest shade of pink. It was warm in the room, she supposed, but then again it might just have been her disquieted hormones blasting through her every pore.

“Uhh-- Yes, I am.” It’s a lie. It’s a blatant, fucking lie, yet she couldn’t help but say it, knowing that the truth probably wasn’t the better alternative in this situation.

“Look,” he said, running a hand through snowy hair. She wondered if it would be as soft as it looked. “Are you even interested in this? Like, at all?”

To lie or not to lie?

Maka bit her lip. “Mmmaaaaaybee?”

He stared at her with disbelieving red eyes. “What are you even doing here, then?”

“Well,” she breathed out, not wanting to draw out her humiliation for any longer than necessary. “Ikindagotabondtattooandapparentlyitisapianopiecesoiwantedtolearnit.”

Silence.

“Couldn’t you just have asked or something?”

“I did!” she bursted out. “But _no one_ seemed to know it, so I figured that at least I’d learn to play it because otherwise how am I even going to _find_ this person?”

“Well, give it here,” he bluntly said.

Soul Evans registered the pretty colour her skin became when she blushed and shyly grasped the edge of her shirt, pulling it up just enough so he could see the staff lines curling around the sides of her chest and back - and also a glimpse of the fabric of her bra, but he felt the blood pressure building up in his nose and decided to dwell on it later.

Then, he doesn’t have to worry about nosebleeds at all, because all blood drained from his face as he recognized the piece.

It’s one of his.

No wonder his brother had been spending all his time snickering lately after he had told him he had gotten Soul a new student.

“Oh,” he squeaked, and it’s so unmanly and feeble that he had to contain the urge to shove his face into the nearest hard surface.

“You know it?” she asked curiously, and he’s assaulted by the greenest, prettiest eyes he had ever seen.

“Uh, yes,” he said, and resisted the urge to facepalm himself into oblivion. A finger reached out to touch the inked lines; they danced and changed colours beneath his fingers.  They had a Bond, alright. “Do angel wings mean anything to you, by chance?”

Soul could pinpoint the exact moment she realized what was going on, the small flush that had never quite left her cheeks while in his presence suddenly spreading. It reached the tiny sliver of her chest that he could glimpse with her shirt on the way, and he wondered where else it had spread.

And as she gripped his hand and told him to _show her_ , he actually felt like thanking his brother for being so meddlesome.

****  



End file.
